


Spin Cycle

by surveycorpsjean



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surveycorpsjean/pseuds/surveycorpsjean
Summary: All their roads have led them here.





	Spin Cycle

He’s a tall and bristly-looking man, fitted in a bespoke and black Lucchese python boots.

Aziraphale…well. Hate is a rather strong word, isn’t it? Detest sounds a little softer on the ears.

“Good morning,” the man greets, taking off his hat.

Ah, an American.

“Wrong shop I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says, not bothered enough to rise from his desk.

“You’re not Mr. Fell?”

He looks up at the sound of his name, but never gets any further than the snakeskin boots. Obsidian black with a copper-tipped brim – it fills him with a very ungodly feeling, a pit in the bottom of his stomach. Oh dear, _Hate_ is such a fitting word.

He already has an inkling of what this human wants, but Aziraphale gives him the benefit of the doubt.

“How may I help you?”

The man smiles, and shoves his hands in his pockets quite casually.

“Great spot you’ve got here. Right in downtown- you know I’m not real familiar with Soho yet, but I love the vibe.”

He’s a youngish gentleman, probably handsome, if Aziraphale could lift his gaze any higher than his feet.

The scowl is mostly unintentional. Aziraphale sets down his eyeglasses and rises from his chair.

“Allow me to rephrase. What do you want?”

The man, previously feigning interest in his selection of Sanskrit, startles upright. He laughs it off easy, scratching his scruffy chin.

“Ah, right to the point. Well, after a three-year uphill battle, I’ve finally signed the deed on that ratty duplex across the street-“

Aziraphale gasps, “No, Miss Jones…”

“- and we’re looking to tear down the lot by the end of the month. The old cottage-feel is cute, but I think the area could use a little _new,_ don’t you think?”

This man talks too much for his own good. Aziraphale gathers his restored book in his arm and stalks to the back shelves.

“My shop is not for sale, and it will never _be_ for sale. Good day sir.”

“Wait –“ he starts. “My name’s Sam. Lemme’ treat you to lunch, I’ve got plans to completely rejuvenate London’s tourism –“

The American follows Aziraphale further into his collection. The sound of his boots clunking on the shop floor is like nails on a bloody chalkboard.

Aziraphale can’t stand to look at them anymore. Scaled and black and _wrong._ His patience thins and cracks all at once.

He snaps his fingers and spins the man towards the door.

“Good day, _Sam._ Do not come back, thank you!”

The man sputters into a shout, flailing as his feet drag against the floor, pulled towards the door by an invisible string. Aziraphale twitches at the sound of his cries. He taps his foot against the bottom shelf and silences the man by the click of his heel.

His shop door slams shut; silence clatters after it. Aziraphale sighs, and sets his book into its proper place.

“Well, that wasn’t very heavenly.”

Aziraphale isn’t surprised. He knows Crowley’s presence like a second skin. An aura like syrup, sticky and unsettling and oddly addicting. (Unsaid: Delicious).

“A man of too many words,” Aziraphale straightens his waistcoat, and steps back towards his writing desk. “Brevity is the soul of wit, you know.”

“Don’t quote Hamlet to me, it’s too damn early,” Crowley groans. He pushes further into his doorway, shoulder up against the frame, long and gangly and somehow looking comfortable anywhere. Crowley looks back at the door. “They’re getting braver, aren’t they?”

Aziraphale lifts his nose.

“I’m not selling.”

Crowley grins, a mouth full of sharp teeth.

“I’d offer to get rid of ‘em once and for all, but you’re much more creative than I, aren’t you?”

“Hush,” Aziraphale smiles. He fiddles with the edge of his desk – _not_ flustered. Definitely not. “You’re here earlier than usual. Should I be afraid?”

“M’ off the clock,” Crowley points, makes a finger gun, and pops his tongue. “Permanently. Sittin’ around making birds shit on tourists is only fun for so long.”

“Well now Crowley, that’s not very nice.”

“Neither is booting a man by the ass and zippin’ ‘is mouth shut tight now issit?” Crowley grins. He looks almost proud, and Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s a good thing.

Crowley’s form shifts slithery, darkness swirling about the shop as he turns into a snake and slides atop one of the bookcases. Aziraphale stares at leathery scales and a red underbelly, and frowns at the slight flicker of _relief_ he feels. This form radiates evil, but it settles Aziraphale in a way it should not.

Crowley takes his staring as unease.

 _Relax_ , Crowley hisses. _I’ll take over sales._

He’s good at it, too. Few customers are keen on a giant snake nipping at their heels. Not a single sale all day.

It’s unofficially official; no more snakeskin boots in his shop. None now, none then, none forever. The thought of it makes his skin crawl.

* * *

It’s quite hard to unlearn six-thousand-year-old habits.

But maybe not quite so hard.

Crowley is a good demon. And Aziraphale, well, (he’s a bad angel).

Neither one insomuch more than the other, almost meeting in the middle, some greyish area where morals aren’t so black and white.

Maybe, perhaps, just maybe… it wasn’t _them_ influencing the humans, but in a hint of irony, it might’ve been the other way around. It could have been the Ineffable Plan all along – for the Boss works in mysterious ways.

Well…not _his_ boss anymore. Right right right.

Plants remind him of Crowley in a way that tickles his heart. _Too fond_ for a demon, but just fond enough for Crowley.

Aziraphale enjoys garage-sale hopping on Sundays. Sometimes the most wonderful gems are hiding in their grandmother’s cedar chest, rotting in a forgotten attic.

First editions are a rare but possible find. Aziraphale happily sorts through lamps and hand-me-down clutches in search of a good text. There’s a second-edition Psalm book, but Aziraphale already has the first back home.

There’s an odd-looking plant sitting on the edge of the lady’s sale table. It looks a bit gloomy, but the patterns on its leaves aren’t anything like the plants Crowley keeps in his flat.

“Is this for sale?” Aziraphale points.

The young woman behind the folding table looks up from her phone and blinks.

“The plant? Er – yeah. But I almost feel bad selling it, the poor thing’s almost dead.”

Aziraphale touches the edge of its leaves. They’re green, but curled up and deeply unhappy. Yet Aziraphale can still feel life pulsing inside of it. Crowley could surely fix it up right (or scare it alive anyways).

It’s ah, a bit funny, how all things lead him to Crowley these days. Maybe it’s always been that way, and Aziraphale is just allowing himself to notice at last.

“What is it called?”

“It’s a prayer plant,” she answers.

Aziraphale nearly smiles. _Fitting,_ he thinks.

“How much?”

“Just take it. If you can bring it back from the brink then shit, you deserve it.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t feel right just taking it, so he leaves a couple quid in her mason jar as she assists an irritable elderly woman questioning the authenticity of an old _Prada_ bag.

He tucks the pot under his arm and reflects that it wasn’t a complete bust after all.

* * *

The plant sits on the table of his kitchenette and haunts him deeply.

It’s very unhappy, leaves curled up and a yellow green – and what a lousy present, isn’t it? A sad, near-withered plant.

Aziraphale sets his head in his hand and sighs. Blazer draped on the back of the chair, he pops the top button of his shirt with one hand and lets the bowtie slide to the table.

Crowley has gifted him many things. Not _material_ insomuch as a lifetime of deeds Aziraphale can never pay back. Simple acts of kindness that never went unnoticed, but in his stubbornness, afraid to reciprocate. 

There isn’t a single doubt in his mind. Not a single thread, not even a morsel.

Aziraphale loves Crowley.

If only he could say it so easily.

 _The upstairs wouldn’t be happy about that,_ but then again, they wouldn’t be happy about any of this.

It’s been easier than he thought it would be — to let go of the only job he ever knew. Maybe that’s the scary part; that his life sews together so neatly with Crowley’s.

“Please perk up darling,” Aziraphale sighs, thumbing the edge of the pot. “You are going to a very dear friend of mine.”

The plant shrinks into itself even more, if possible. Aziraphale sets his head against the table and breathes out heavy through his nose. His body doesn’t need to breathe, but it does help to exhale some of the bees buzzing in his stomach. 

* * *

Aziraphale knows love. Knows the smell of it, the taste of it. Babies in spring, heat and passion and everything _beautiful_ about it oh, does he know.

But this is much different. This is his own heart, his own heavenly-issued flesh and blood, beating irregular around lanky demons since 4004 B.C.

_Silly,_ he thinks. _I’m being silly._

You can see most of Westminster up here. The river Thames is dark and shimmery below. Lights speckle here and there, and it feels like just yesterday London was dark, full of horse and buggies. But Aziraphale likes change. It’s the one aspect of life that is both human, heavenly, and demonic all at once.

The air is thinner this high up. Aziraphale grips the railing, feeling much like a garden wall. He wants to jump, like a baby bird in her nest.

“Now,” Crowley says. “What in the _hell_ are you doing all the way up here?”

Crowley’s ability to find him anywhere is quite commendable. Aziraphale smiles, sensing the heat of Crowley’s body as he steps in from the service elevator, and approaches the railing.

“Thinking, I guess,” Aziraphale says.

“We’re meant to grab Italian, or have you forgotten already?”

“Not until eight,” he answers. Crowley steps next to him.

He’s always stood taller. Much more handsome than the rats scampering around in hell. Aziraphale insistently wishes he would take off the glasses.

“So,” Crowley stares. “What do angels think about.”

“I was –“ Aziraphale bites off. He looks up over the edge, where the Thames rushes five-hundred feet below. He could see his shop if he really tried. “Curious.”

“Of?”

“Flying,” Aziraphale says. “It’s been a rather long time. I wonder if I even can, anymore.”

Crowley stares at him, expression unreadable behind black glass _(please, oh please just take them off this one time)._ His mouth twitches to a smile, and crawls into a grin.

“I don’t think it’s something you _can_ forget, angel.” Crowley steps up on the bottom bar of the railing, reaching even higher. “S’ like riding a bike.”

“I do believe I never learned to ride a bike.”

“Then it’s like _flyin’,_ ” Crowley snaps.

“Flying is like – flying?”

“Exactly.” Crowley throws out his arms, and inky raven wings billow from his back like smoke. Folding into feathers, stretching at a wingspan so dark against the sky, it’s almost indistinguishable. He grins, “You wanna fly, let’s fly. Get some _real_ Italian instead of some English bastardization of the sort.”

Aziraphale nearly forgets his mind, caught up in the beauty of Crowley unfurling his wings.

“Wh-wh- Crowley! Are you mad? This is a residential building.”

“You’re the one sittin’ up here all sad and such,” Crowley hops up on the top bar and stretches out a hand. “Avoid the planes and we’ll be fine.”

His heart pops in his chest. It’s a loud _buh_ _-dump, buh-dump_ that runs his blood hot in his ears.

What if he can’t fly anymore? What if he plummets to the ground?

Crowley huffs impatiently and wiggles his fingers. He appears to be a mind reader.

“I won’t letcha’ fall, come on.”

It’s always Crowley reaching out; always brave enough to take the first step.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to turn him away anymore. These are the first days of the rest of their lives. There’s a houseplant dying in his kitchen. God, has he loved for so long. 

He grabs Crowley’s fingers, and is surprised at the strength that helps him up to the top bar.

“Alright angel,” Crowley grins. “Suit up.”

It’s like a weight off his shoulders. Like stretching a cramped muscle. Snowy white furling out of his spine, rewiring tendons and spiking nerves up the back of his neck. Aziraphale breathes out once, and feels the wind catch in his primaries. Crowley has gone still.

“I haven’t flown since the arc,” Aziraphale admits.

“I haven’t since good ol’ Benz invented the car,” Crowley snickers. And to Aziraphale’s surprise, he twists his foot on the railing, falls back, and drags Aziraphale right over the edge with him.

He yips at first. Their hands rip apart as Crowley spreads his wings wide, and allows them to catch the air. Aziraphale fumbles a bit, flapping a little too hard and nearly sending himself into a spin. It’s harder than he remembers, more manual and less of a miracle.

He’s falling down the side of a building. The water rushes like a very-real reminder of the river below, and Aziraphale flaps hard and sends himself flying.

Crowley is laughing.

“That’s it! What’s an angel that can’t fly?”

Aziraphale laughs with him, coasting up high above the Warf tower, and panting with the effort it takes.

“A lousy one,” Aziraphale answers. Crowley cackles. The adrenaline just kind of – bubbles the words out of him. “Your smile is lovely.” 

He can’t see Crowley eyes, especially in the dark, but Crowley flaps twice and sends air rustling through his hair as they hover.

“C’mon,” Crowley twists. “I’m not giving up my reservations for no one.”

Aziraphale flies after him, a little unsteady until he coasts in Crowley’s backdraft. He’s a natural in the air, as if he’s flown every day of his life.

“Aww, no evening in Milan?”

“Next time angel,” Crowley calls, and Aziraphale works hard to match his pace. He’s a bit too fast, but Aziraphale is working hard to keep up from now on.

* * *

He thinks about Crowley’s body, sometimes.

What it felt like to be taller. A little warmer. Trousers _rather_ tight, but long legs and narrow hips to fit it well.

Aziraphale didn’t have much time to ponder on it at the moment, but he thinks about it a lot, now.

His day’s work has been fixing the waterstains on this poor book of poems, but his mind drifts like a sailboat, and floats up and over the end of the waterfall.

Being – ah, _inside_ Crowley – it wasn’t like Madam Tracy’s body. Fitting for the need at the time, but it was a glass overfilled, two souls to a body, cramped and uncomfortable and slightly wrong.

He wonders how Crowley felt in his own. (He wonders if Crowley even thought twice about it).

Aziraphale looks in the reflection of his shop window and drags his hand down the side of his cheek.

It used to just be a body. But now it’s _his_ body _._

Crowley’s skin was surprisingly soft. Aziraphale remembers that in great detail.

Angels should not think about these things. Aziraphale does not give a hoot, either.

* * *

More days pass, and Aziraphale is too much of a coward to give Crowley the stupid plant.

What they have is nice. By human standards, they are _probably_ in a relationship, but it’s never been outright stated, and Aziraphale is terrified to send it all crumbling.

Really, it’s just a plant. It doesn’t have to mean any more than that.

“Hey,” Crowley pokes his head back through the entryway. “What’s this?” And Aziraphale cringes so hard, he nearly pops the light circuitry by accident.

They were meant to have a nice evening. Two-hundred-year-old Chardonnay from France, a marathon of _pirate_ movies that Crowley is insistent that Aziraphale will enjoy for the fashion – which, Aziraphale already agrees, the pirates _did_ have some of the best accessories –

But Crowley is nosing around that dying little houseplant, and Aziraphale feels like he’s been stripped bare.

“Well,” he clears his throat. There’s really no use in lying. “I uh. It was… I bought it a week ago. For you.”

“For me?”

Aziraphale peeks into the kitchen. Crowley is thumbing along the leaves.

“Y-yes. I saw it at a garden sale, and it looked quite different than what you keep. I ah…” Aziraphale trails. “I tried to restore it a little before gifting it to you. Poor thing refuses to live on.” 

“He’s not dead,” Crowley says. He yanks on the nook blinds and draws in the setting sunlight– and the plant’s zebra leaves rustle. Crowley brings the pot to eye-height and shouts, _“Hey arsehole!_ You’re a picky little fucker aren’t you! Special snowflakes get real acquainted with my car _boot_ you hear me?! Open up and quit bein’ a little pansy, I’m not no angel, love.”

Crowley sets the plant directly in the windowsill, and to Aziraphales amazement, the leaves begin to open.

“Remarkable!” he gasps.

Crowley snorts, “A little tough love is all it takes.” He turns, and lifts an eyebrow above his spectacles. “And it wasn’t in the _sun_ for one. Aziraphale, really.”

“I watered it!” He defends.

Crowley stares a moment longer, before smirking coy and sauntering across the room. He steps one foot over the other, a sway that is impossible to mimic (not that he’s tried).

Aziraphale feels a tad pinned as Crowley crosses the kitchen.

“More importantly,” Crowley grins, creeping into his personal space. “You bought something for me.”

“Well – yes.”

The grin crawls demonic.

“You’ve never given me a present.”

“Now, that’s not true. I remember pulling _quite_ some strings to arrange a flask of, of…” Aziraphale breathes out, his earthly heart working overtime as Crowley crowds him against the kitchen entryway.

“Holy water,” Crowley finishes. “Put it to good use, promise.”

Aziraphale swallows. For one reason or another, he can’t stop staring at his mouth.

“Now what have I done to deserve such a terrible gift?” Crowley hums. He’s playing games, just as he always does. Flirts and pushes because he knows Aziraphale won’t push back.

Aziraphale’s back hits the wall, and Crowley’s hand rises up to pin him in and keep him there.

It catches up with him. This – _dance,_ this game they’ve been playing. All the hands that reached out to him, all the times Crowley showed him he cared.

Determination washes through Aziraphale like hot tea. Head to toe, he sets his gaze and tips his head up to search for Crowley’s eyes.

“What have you done to deserve a gift?” Aziraphale repeats. He bites his lip, lets it slide through his teeth before carefully reaching up and removing Crowley’s sunglasses. Crowley tenses, and wide pearly snake eyes stare back as Aziraphale pulls the spectacles off completely. Aziraphale smiles, “Too much to list, my dear.”

Crowley is wide-eyed and momentarily speechless. Aziraphale offers a pressed, toothless smile, and uses his free hand to thumb over the snake tattoo beneath his temple.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Crowley’s hands jerk to press against his neck, half up his cheek to hold him still. Crowley doesn’t look as if he’s breathing at all. His hands are a scorching heat, unbelievably hot against his skin, but Aziraphale doesn’t shy from it.

Crowley wets his bottom lip and hisses, “Aziraphale.” He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away, as if scorning himself. “Ah, fuck.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale holds his face to mime the way Crowley is holding his own. He swallows hard and steadies himself. He wants to be brave. He wants to say it. Aziraphale smiles shakily, “Correct me if I’m wrong. But I think all our roads have led us here.”

Crowley finally looks at him again. Aziraphale adores his eyes – he really, truly does.

“No. Nothings lead us anywhere. I’ve been chasing you since time began, angel,” Crowley grits.

“I let you follow,” Aziraphale mumbles. “It appears I’m in love with you. A heinous crime upstairs, but something tells me God herself already knows.”

Crowley just kind of – collides into him. Forehead to forehead, as if he’s waited thousands of years to do it.

“Angel – oh angel,” he breathes, “I’d stop the world for you.”

Aziraphale laughs, chest to chest they’re so close he can feel all of it – his ashy, firelight smell, a blanket aura and so much heat.

“I do believe you already did.”

Crowley has never taken more than he’s allowed. Has never pushed too far. Has never crossed that last boundary line. And even here, in the tiny nook of his shop kitchenette, forehead to forehead Crowley hovers over his mouth and waits for an approval. Aziraphale asks instead.

“Do you love me?”

Crowley croaks, “Idiot. You know it’s only ever been you.”

Aziraphale presses their mouths together, like all the thousands of mankind’s movies, like all the _millions_ of their books and poetry -- an act that humans perfected so early on, and yet here they are, how many years later.

Crowley takes a surprised step back, Aziraphale follows, and suddenly hands are holding him at the waist and oh, is Crowley’s mouth clever. Aziraphale drops the black spectacles to the floor.

They’re both standing equally in the doorway. Neither one more aggressive than the other – Crowley parts his lips and kisses into him, and the downright spark that jerks down Aziraphale’s spine accidentally unfurls his wings towards the nook.

Aziraphale gasps, a little embarrassed and more so surprised, but Crowley just tips his head further and groans, and suddenly pots are flying as Crowley’s black wings flutter out towards the kitchen.

“Oops,” Crowley mumbles, and Aziraphale wraps his arms around his neck to press kisses across that tattoo.

Crowley finds his mouth easy. He’s very, very good at this kissing business. Aziraphale doesn’t even have half the mind to be self-conscious; his very essence hungers to be closer, to dig his nails in and not let go. It’s a bit animalistic, but aren’t they all.

“You, you,” Crowley starts, noses bumping as he pulls back and kisses again. “God you’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale goes hot and tingly, and a little satisfied.

He teases, “Don’t bring the Almighty into this. Then we might really have a problem on our hands.”

Crowley drags his hands up his spine and into the base of his feathers. Aziraphale gasps and shivers when Crowley pets right into them. A heat coils in his stomach, a feeling he hasn’t felt in quite a while.

Crowley is looking at him like he really is beautiful. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to process that, so he leans up and kisses him again, a little gentler this time, and he can thank Crowley for the burn in his chest, because Crowley kisses him back just as gentle.

It’s very soft, and without the need to breathe, Aziraphale picks up the art rather quickly. He trembles whenever Crowley pets into his feathers.

Crowley pulls back and holds him by the cheeks. His mouth is red, a stark difference against his primary eyes.

“You let me know if I’m going too fast for you,” Crowley demands.

“I can keep up,” Aziraphale smiles. 

There’s a soft _crunch._

Aziraphale jerks back and gasps.

“Oh no,” he breathes. Crowley’s glasses are a shattered mess under his shoe. “Oh lord, I’m so sorry. I can –“

“There’s more in the Bentley,” Crowley waves.

“There’s – what?”

“More,” Crowley moves, mouth pressing to his neck. “In the _Bentley.”_

“Oh!” Aziraphale jumps, surprised at how good that feels. He cups his hand at the back of Crowley’s neck, feeling the stubbly hair there.

“Now if you don’t mind, can we move to your couch and neck for the next ten years?”

“A bit overdue,” Aziraphale nods, and they do.

* * *

Change is good.

So much of it is new. Crowley doesn’t mind showing him along – in fact, Crowley acts as if _he_ is the lucky one. Funny that.

What is more peculiar, is how much does _not_ change. Breakfast, shop doors at nine, tea time and a demon swaggering into his home – talented at tempting him into an eary close, just to drive across the river for lunch. Amusing pirate movies, a snake sleeping on his bookshelf, slow walks through the park.

Aziraphale is happy when Crowley invites him back to his flat. It’s not as cozy as the bookshop, but Aziraphale likes to think it’s become a little brighter as of late.

Except now, instead of sipping wine in the kitchen and discussing pre-18th century music, they just snog against the counter and oh yes, it’s just as fun as the films make it out to be.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley’s snake tongue dips into his collar. “The plant looks much happier.”

Leaves open and green, beautiful zebra patterns stitched through it, flourishing on his windowsill; the plant is alive.

“It better be,” Crowley growls, and bites right into his throat. 

* * *

With Crowley’s head in his lap, eyes closed and legs slung over the arm of the couch, Aziraphale thinks he looks rather peaceful. He tells him so.

“I do not,” Crowley snaps, but doesn’t make any effort to prove otherwise. Aziraphale’s nails aren’t long enough to really scratch, but he pets through his hair and thinks of all the poor strain it’s endured throughout the eras.

Aziraphale isn’t sure if he’s truly the beautiful one here. Born an angel yes, but Crowley was made to _tempt._ To lure you in and swallow you, not quite an incubus, but close. Aziraphale stares at long lashes and a bruised mouth and thinks _beautiful, yes._

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale pets his knuckles down his cheek. Crowley noses into his hand almost naturally, and it tugs at his heartstrings.

“Yesss?”

“How much of this have you…” Aziraphale clears his throat, and twitches his nose. “Err, how much have you – done before?”

Crowley peeks open an eye. He proved him right on the glasses – a new pair sits happy on his coffee table.

“Well,” Crowley licks across his front teeth, and shrugs. “Depends. Wasn’t interested much until the 70’s.”

“Sex, drugs and rock and roll?”

“Oh the drugs,” Crowley rubs at his forehead, as if remembering something bittersweet. “Cocaine was definitely my doing, sorry that.”

Aziraphale sniffs.

“And the sex?”

“Was easy tempting,” Crowley finishes. He lifts an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”

“Definitely not! Angels do not get jealous.”

Crowley grins. “Now that’s a lie. Two sins down, are we three for three?”

Aziraphale tugs on his hair with a huff, and Crowley arches a little, groaning behind his teeth. Aziraphale feels as if he’s stepped on a live wire. He goes deathly still, and Crowley opens his eyes again to smirk at him.

“Don’t be jealous love, it was just sex. This is – “ Crowley goes a bit serious, covering Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “This part is new to me.”

How funny – still opposites in all the ways that make them interesting.

Aziraphale curiously tugs on his hair again. Crowley squirms in his lap, and heat pools straight in his stomach. Crowley laughs sharply. 

“Are you fucking with me?”

“It’s been three weeks since my kitchen,” Aziraphale says, like that makes sense. Crowley hums anyways.

“Yes?”

“So,” Aziraphale hovers over him. “You should take off your clothes and show me what you learned in the 70’s.”

* * *

He doesn’t need sleep, but he does own a bed. This body doesn’t require food either, but gee, Aziraphale sure does enjoy it. Crowley enjoys sleep more than he, but it’s nice to put the bed to some real use.

“You wear too many fucking clothes,” Crowley curses.

“Don’t wrinkle it!”

“M’ not! Quit moving – “

Aziraphale gasps, scandalized as Crowley just _dumps_ his coat on the floor.

“Crowley!” He cries, that’s my – “ _Mmf!-“_

Unfortunately, Crowley would be quite a good magician. The old _misdirection_ strategy works rather well for him. Crowley’s tongue fills his mouth, and Aziraphale’s brain melts right out of his ears.

Aziraphale cannot fathom how hot his body gets. He was sure he was well adjusted, but something about Crowley’s hands popping his shirt buttons, smoothing between the gaps and feeling down his chest – it alights Aziraphale down to his fingertips.

“I-“ Aziraphale begins, and it falls through into a moan as Crowley bites into his bottom lip. His teeth are sharp, so delightfully sharp. He blinks through the haze, spreading his knees a little wider, arching up and — “ _Crowley!”_

“What?” He barks back. Crowley tugs his shirt off his shoulders, balls it up and tosses it to the floor with his poor coat.

“I’ve kept these clothes clean for nearly a century!”

Crowley breathes out impatiently through his nose, and snaps his fingers next to Aziraphale’s ear. He jumps a little, opening his mouth to argue again, but Aziraphale notices his vest, coat and button-down folded neatly on the chair.

“Oh,” Aziraphale beams. “Well thank you dear.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and reaches up to squeeze his nose.

“You’re a pillow princess, aren’t you.”

“Definitely not!”

“Yeah?” Crowley grins evil. He sits back and runs his hands down the front of Aziraphale’s chest, as if it’s some sort of worship. The heat of his eyes is tangible, like sunrays in his skin. “Tell me, does the angel got a bit of a nasty side?”

Aziraphale doesn’t appreciate the teasing, but he can appreciate the view of Crowley kneeling above him. Aziraphale settles his hands on either side of his thighs, smoothing down to his knees. He’s still wearing those damned _jeans –_ and his mind drifts to terribly impure places.

“No spoilers,” Aziraphale answers, squeezing his inner thigh.

Crowley’s confident body language is startled into unease. His gaze flickers down and up, before carefully bringing Aziraphale’s palm to his lips.

“You’re…actually sure about this?”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes.

“You really think I’d lay here otherwise?”

Crowley snickers a little, and moves his mouth to kiss between Aziraphale’s sternum. He gasps as Crowley moves downwards, pressing his teeth into his stomach and hooking his fingers in his trousers.

“Dear God,” Crowley teases. “Please remove these trousers.”

“That is – so not funny.”

Crowley cackles, and pops his button with his thumb. Aziraphale is surprised to feel him tug down his trousers and pants all at once, and suddenly they’re a crumbled mess on the floor. And…now the archangel Aziraphale is naked.

He doesn’t have the mind to yell anymore. Nerves and excitement swell his tongue, and Aziraphale feels a bit numb as Crowley licks across his fangs and grins, pressing his mouth to his bare hip and biting once.

“Oh angel, you’re gorgeous.”

Aziraphale sniffs, face flushing red. He’s also — err, quite hard, which Crowley seems very satisfied with, so Aziraphale can’t be too embarrassed about it. The snap of Crowley’s snake eyes is electric. Aziraphale pets into his short hair again, and Crowley hums, licking over the little mark he’s made and moving on.

Aziraphale is definitely unprepared for Crowley to just – grab his cock by the base and suck the head straight between his lips.

“Ah! _God._ ”

Crowley’s tongue flicks clever, and Aziraphale jerks, toes curling up in his cream-colored bedspread. Crowley sucks a moment, licks again and pulls back satisfied.

“Please curse baby, oh please, I’ll fucking lose it.”

“Angels c-curse,” Aziraphale stutters, head flopping back on the pillow and Crowley squeezes his grip and twists in a way that makes him go absolutely cross eyed. “Ah! I – I am just more – _well mannered -_ oh Crowley, please.”

Crowley pulls him back into his mouth at the sound of his name. Aziraphale grips his hair and Crowley groans, finally finished with the teasing and _Christ –_ Aziraphale nearly whines. He’s never felt anything like it; just the sight alone flips his stomach around like a — _ahh_ – something that flips!

Aziraphale sobs into his free hand, some slurred mantra of Crowley’s name. It’s hot, he’s sweating down his neck and Crowley is still fully dressed (a crime).

“Heavens, your mouth. You clever little – _tart_ you.”

Crowley groans around him, head bobbing up and down smooth, and Aziraphale’s gaze is drawn between his legs, where he’s grinding into the heel of his free hand, and Aziraphale nearly comes.

“I can’t,” Aziraphale cries, attempting to pull his head away. “I, _Crowley –“_

Crowley pulls off and his voice sounds gravely and abused and, forgive him, sexy as all hell.

“Please,” Crowley begs, eyes never leaving him. “I deserve to taste this.” He licks down as he slips him into the velvet of his mouth and it’s done with; Aziraphale’s spine leaves the bed and he nearly vibrates out of his own skin.

 _“Fuck,_ Crowley!”

It thrums through him, hot and white and poor demon, Aziraphale must’ve pulled out his hair by now.

Crowley makes a sputtering sound, and Aziraphale gasps, “I’m sorry, ah I’m, I’m so – “

It’s dripped down the side of his mouth, but Aziraphale only has a moment to see, because Crowley presses his face into Aziraphale’s naked hip and groans.

“Shit shit shit shit _shit!”_ His hips grind a little, snake eyes squeezed shut and mouth burning hot to the touch. “Ah fuck, angel.”

Aziraphale swallows, reaching for the fingers digging holes into his bedsheets.

“Are – are you alright?”

Crowley’s breath is scorching on his skin. He’s trembling a little, but manages to look up through one eye.

“Almost lost it, Jesus Christ.”

Aziraphale looks back between his legs, where he can almost see the shape of his erection through his jeans. Even in the afterglow, it makes him hot to his toes.

“Dear me, that must be painful. Roll over love.”

Crowley swallows at the endearment. He presses a kiss to his stomach.

“Just a second. I’m still reeling – bloody hell, you are something else.”

Aziraphale’s face is already hot, but it blushes down his neck. He pats Crowley’s cheek.

“Alright, up and at ‘em. Your turn.”

Crowley’s allows Aziraphale to maneuver him on the bed. His breath is labored, and there’s heat in his gaze, but he manages a light tone.

“My turn? I’m spoiled.”

Curious, Aziraphale crawls up his body and kisses him. The taste isn’t delightful, but it’s still Crowley, and that outweighs the bitter. It kisses away easy, and Crowley’s growl vibrates down his throat.

They manage to wrestle his t-shirt off his shoulders. Aziraphale tries to study his chest, the dip of his stomach and the short fiery hair trailing beneath his jeans, but Crowley is dead-set on sucking his mind out of his tongue. Aziraphale gasps – but pulls back quickly.

“Darling.”

“Mmm.”

Aziraphale presses a hand to the shape of him, and he feels his cock pulse through the fabric. Crowley groans. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

Crowley’s stunned look is only momentary. He pets across Aziraphale’s cheek near lovingly, before undoing his jeans and helping Aziraphale wiggle them past his hips. No undergarments, dear heavens. 

“Won’t last long, baby. Give me your hand.”

Aziraphale does so willingly. Crowley pulls him so he’s straddling his lap, and to Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley brings his hand to his mouth and licks between his fingers.

“Ah, goodness,” Aziraphale gasps, surprised at the twitch his spent cock gives. Crowley grins, licking down his palm, lips wet and sticky as he sucks two of his fingers in his mouth, and pops off.

“There,” Crowley says. “Surely you get the idea.” He leads Aziraphale’s hand between his legs and wraps it around the head of his cock, and finally Aziraphale gets a good look. He squeezes, fascinated with Crowley’s slim figure. His skin runs warm, beauty marks and veins and all the wonderful things that make a body real. He’s a solid size, heavy in his palm, very – very attractive yes.

Crowley has tensed under his gaze. Aziraphale sighs, "Crowley my dear. Your body was made to tempt me." 

Aziraphale moves his hand, and the reaction from Crowley is amazing. Head flopping back, hands jerking to squeeze at Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Satan alive,” he curses. “Faster Aziraphale, you’re killing me.”

Aziraphale’s mouth feels dry. He complies, captivated by the way Crowley moves under him. Aziraphale twists his wrist, and Crowley nearly jerks.

“Fuck!” He yips, hips jolting up. “That’s it angel. God, look at you. I’ve thought about this a thousand different ways.”

Aziraphale doesn’t really think twice on it. The thought doesn’t even touch the filters of his mind. His mouth just says,

“You should fuck me.”

Crowley goes distressingly still, pupils narrowed into thin little pins, before a groan tears from his throat, and his head cracks back against the headboard. He comes hard, and Aziraphale is startled, almost forgetting to work him through it. He’s afraid to look away, committing Crowley’s face to memory.

“Christ,” Crowley moans, still pulsing. “You – you can’t just say that.”

“Oopsie.”

“No matter,” Crowley croaks. He presses his palm between Aziraphale’s legs, feeling where he’s hard again already. “Give me two minutes.”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning up to peck his mouth.

“Might be a little fun, not being human, eh?”

Crowley grins, goofy and real.

“You haven’t a clue.”

It's unlike anything Aziraphale has ever felt. Hands intertwined, it's beyond a soul exchange; it's becoming one. Crowley's hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wide and watching every move he makes. Oh God, Aziraphale is in love with him. 

It doesn't hurt or burn or feel odd at all - and it must be a miracle, because it feels like they were made for each other. Aziraphale rises up on his knees, sinks down and feels full and perfect. Aziraphale tells him so, and Crowley flips them over, rolls him into the mattress and chews into his neck and pistons his hips in a _demonic_ way, an absolute heavenly pace that lights him on fire top to bottom. 

Aziraphale doesn't know anything other than Crowley’s name. A solid mantra, cock trapped between their bodies, squirming and hard and _full -_ how can he carry on, knowing they were meant to be like this. 

He claws down Crowley's back, leaves red little marks and tips his head back so Crowley can leave even more so. This body will bruise, and for once, Aziraphale is content with that. 

There's something incredible about the stutter in Crowley's hips. About feeling him draw close, feeling his energy in his bones, his firewood scent mixing with his own its perfect! It's messy and sweaty and a strain on the bed frame, and it's perfect. 

The way Crowley says his name. Cries it out like a — like a fucking prayer, a broken soul on his knees; "Oh _Aziraphale!”_ Hecomes, just from hearing it. From the desperation and the teeth at his neck, untouched and hands clutching into Crowley's skin like he'll fall if he lets go. He just might. 

A moment later, and it’s Crowley’s turn to shiver apart. Aziraphale pets through red hair, and coos him through it. He's giggling a little - "Mood ruiner," Crowley grumbles, but Aziraphale is happy beyond his years. Just so damn happy. 

He feels Crowley smile into his neck. He mumbles, _I love you_ into the sweat of his skin and Aziraphale's world falls out from under him all over again. 

* * *

The chime of his shop door is very disappointing.

Aziraphale was sure he’d scared off all potential customers by now, but unfortunately, a tourist sometimes wanders through, and there isn’t much he can do about it.

“Good morning,” he greets.

“Hello,” the lady smiles.

 _Please leave,_ Aziraphale thinks. He says instead, “Looking for something?”

“Just browsing!”

Damn. Aziraphale frowns, and turns to where he’s tidying the shelves. He doesn’t pay her much mind at first, secretly hoping she won’t spot anything rare and sully the books. He loses himself in rearranging his collection, dusting off a few spines and setting them back in place.

The lady browses slowly. She circles closer, and Aziraphale soon realizes that she’s gazing at him.

She looks away as Aziraphale spots her – and Aziraphale blinks, a little startled. He doesn’t typically – well. He doesn’t attract her sort much, the last hundred years. Not until society became a little more self aware.

She’s a pretty looking human, with a round face and soft features, and Aziraphale catches her staring once more, and is a little stumped on what to say.

A book slides in and out of one of the cases; Aziraphale cringes silently, and he hears short clops come around the corner.

“Um,” she starts. “I’m a new tenant to the-“

The shop doors are nearly kicked open, and Aziraphale jumps along with the woman.

“Hello love!” Crowley greets, showboaty and over the top as all hell. He saunters in, twirling his keys around his finger, glasses shining something evil. “Sorry I’m late — stopped to get the car washed, you know it took _hours_ to get that stain out of the back-“

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps.

The woman, scandalized, shrinks back behind one of the bookcases.

Taking no prisoners, Crowley crowds him against one of the shelves and slinks his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Where’s my hello kiss?”

The shop doors ding as the woman scampers out the back. Aziraphale sighs.

“Well that’s one way to go about it.”

“Serves her right,” Crowley mumbles, kissing the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale watches the swinging door come to a standstill, and smiles cheeky.

“My my. Is someone jealous?”

Crowley steps back and scoffs.

“Of course I am, it’s what I _do._ ” He tucks his hands behind his back and meanders through the shop, nosing at the newest book on his desk. “Nobody else is allowed to look at you like that.”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Selfish, too. Goodness me, I’ve got a real demon on my hands.”

“Just close early and come to dinner with me,” Crowley snaps. And really, he doesn’t even need to ask.

* * *

Hmm.

Hmmmm.

Hmmmmmm—

“You’re staring at my ass,” Crowley says.

“I definitely am not.”

“I’m doing this for you,” Crowley huffs, hands on his hips, and he’s covered in flour and sugar and oh, is he scrumptious.

“I know dear,” Aziraphale says, snapping away some of the mess. “And you’re doing a terrific job, I assure you.”

“I don’t even know what a clanger looks like.”

“You’ve got the shape down alright enough. All that needs done is the boiling.”

“The _boiling?”_

“Well it is a type of dumpling. You _were_ around in the 19th century weren’t you.”

“Yes but I wasn’t _eating_ in the 19th century, let alone cooking, hell. I wouldn’t’ve eaten a morsel in the damn 19th century, disease-ridden, disgusting – did you enjoy the yellow fever?”

“The yellow fever wasn’t spread through dumplings,” Aziraphale sighs. “Don’t tell me the mosquitoes were your doing.”

A scoff, “Do you really think so low of me?”

Aziraphale hums, and scoops a dollop of cream on his finger. He plucks it right on Crowley’s red little nose, and tries not to laugh at his scandalized look.

“Of course not darling. I see the good in everyone.”

“Except any fool that wanders into _your shop,_ ” Crowley points into his chest, pressing little flour fingerprints onto his shirt.

“Blasphemy,” Aziraphale hums. “Are you accusing a heavenly being of ill-intent? _”_ He scoops another dollop of cream, sucks it off his finger, and knows exactly what he’s getting into when he looks Crowley in the eye as he does it.

Unfortunately, the clangers are forgotten.

Fortunately, he’s bent over the countertop and fucked within an inch of his heavenly life. (Bad angel, bad).

It’s all in good fun. Feeling a demon bite into your skin, lose control and unfurl his feathers, cry your name and bury his nose in your neck – it’s unlike anything heaven could provide.

* * *

“They’re heavy,” Aziraphale says, petting along his covert feathers. Crowley hums in response, tired and lax and jello-like in his arms. Aziraphale feels further along his wingspan, as far as his fingers can reach.

“They got denser from the fall,” Crowley mumbles into his shoulder. Aziraphale feels along the tip of his secondaries, and Crowley shivers a little.

“Wow. I cant imagine flying with these.”

“It’s an adjustment, s’ all.”

“I think they’re beautiful.”

Crowley sits back and looks at him. Aziraphale smiles to show he really means it. Crowley lays back on him, and Aziraphale takes it as a great honor, that he’s allowed to sit here and pet the wings of a demon.

“Mhmn mn.”

“What?”

“Yours,” Crowley repeats, “are beautiful.”

Aziraphale smiles to himself, and gently drags his fingers through a sea of black.

* * *

“That was rude!” Aziraphale scoffs, tapping Crowley with the back of his hand.

Crowley cackles, legs spread on the park bench.

“It was hilarious. Lookit’ her.”

The poor woman is drenched in ice cream, caused by a very unfortunate rock that caught under a very unfortunate bike wheel.

“It was unwarranted, that’s what it is.”

“Nah,” Crowley waves. “Watch.”

The woman yells at her husband, a frail, nervous young man, desperately trying to help her clean her blouse. She shouts, the man flinches, and Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

“Hmm.”

“Hell is gonna’ have fun with her I’ll tell you.”

Aziraphale continues to watch across the lake. Children scampering about, more so than usual now that summer is upon them.

Crowley’s leg is pressed against his own. They’re not holding hands, or cuddling like the couple across the way, but Aziraphale still feels invigorated by the contact alone.

Sometimes it still feels as if they’re being watched. He’s not sure if it’s a feeling that’ll ever fade. But Aziraphale is happy with this new life, happy with the evil incarnate causing mischief in a London park.

He spots a man near the lake. Tall, dressed in jeans and – Aziraphale’s neck begins to tingle.

“That one,” Aziraphale nods, an attempt at being subtle that makes Crowley’s eyebrows raise. “Push that one.”

“Oh?” Crowley snickers. “What’d he do? Kick a puppy?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Crowley stares a moment, and studies the man in question. After a long pause he turns, “I don’t feel any particular evil. Are you switching sides, angel?”

Aziraphale glances at the man. T-shirt, baseball cap – ugh. Boots. Scaled, black, snakeskin boots.

“Just do it,” Aziraphale bristles. Crowley looks at him like a kid let loose in a candy store. He...looks at him like he’s really his soulmate.

The man sloshes into the river, his boots float off into the marsh, and Aziraphale feels worlds lighter.

Crowley bumps his knee against his.

“They’re just shoes,” he whispers.

“Snakes,” Aziraphale chides, “are not footwear.”

Crowley’s grin stretches across his face, before flickering his tongue between his teeth. Aziraphale covers his mouth and laughs, and yes, they are soulmates. They just don’t know it yet.

**Author's Note:**

> i havent read much in the tag so im sorry if something like this has already been done lol. 
> 
> they're whipped and i like that 
> 
> [tumblr](http://zanimez.tumblr.com/)


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